The Game Is Over
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: Sherlock feels alone, more alone than he has felt in a long time despite the fact that he is finally, finally home after two long, painful years away. He needed stability when he came back, but all he got was chaos. Everything is changing around him, and he can't seem to cope. SPOILERS FOR THE SIGN OF THREE, trigger warnings inside
1. Chapter 1

**SPOILER WARNING FOR "THE SIGN OF THREE"**

**So I'm not even sure why I wrote this...**

**Sort of just my reaction the The Sign of Three and what could have happened afterwards. **

**But, the thing that's freaking me out the most is that I decided to try first person for a change and I'm really not sure if this is any good and I don't know if this is even worth putting up here and and I almost didn't do this and yeah... I don't even know right now**

**So be brutally honest with me, does this suck? **

**Trigger warning: drug use and mentions of torture**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock...sad, right?**

* * *

I glanced around the room, searching for something, though for what I wasn't sure.

Nobody was paying attention, really. They were all caught up in the celebration and drowning themselves in ever-flowing champagne. Plenty of people were already tipsy and on the dance floor. I even noticed Janine sneaking off somewhere with some man that I didn't know personally. Probably one of the many unattached I'd pointed out earlier. Typical.

They were all whispering too, at my little slip up during my speech. What had "three" meant? I'm sure they were all wondering, though it should be obvious to even the dullest of minds.

I sighed deeply and scanned the room once more, still not really sure what I was looking for.

Perhaps John coming over, abandoning his wife and the thralls of eager guests to spend a few extra moments with his best man and friend.

It was silly to think that would happen. John was done with me, at least for the most part.

People had been trying to tell me for _weeks_ that things were going to be fine. Nothing would change, we'd still be friends and we'd still see each other plenty. John would be there to help me on cases too. Mrs. Hudson had even tried to make me feel better this very morning, and I am well aware that Mary and John have been scheming to make me feel better as well. I knew the only reason John had gone on the Mayfly Killer case with me was Mary. They thought I was going to crack without John.

Well, maybe I would.

Maybe I was already cracked.

They were all so transparent though. They thought they were being sneaky, but I saw right through them, just like I saw through everyone else.

Everyone was just trying to lull me into this sense of false hope. They wanted me to think that everything was going to stay the same, even though they all knew full well it wasn't going to. John _had _to understand things were going to change, that, by making Mary his wife, he was effectively abandoning me and our friendship.

Maybe they were trying to convince themselves of the same thing.

John had to know a new life was waiting for him, with Mary and their future children and a perfect little house with a white picket fence. God, maybe they'd even get a dog.

He'd find new friends that shared his more mundane interests, the ones that didn't involve bloody combat and murder. Boring married friends that drank cheap wine and played Scrabble on Friday nights instead of running through the city and collapsing exhausted in bed at ungodly hours.

I would only be a hinderance to the promise of a normal life, something I'd kept him from in our years together.

There's no more room for the sociopath. Respectable people rarely associate with the likes of me and no amount of misplaced reassurance could change the fact that John was leaving, probably for good, and it was not okay.

It's not that I didn't like Mary, because I did. She was far, far better than the other dull women John had paraded through the flat during our time together. She truly deserved him, at least I thought so. She was kind and intelligent and strong, the perfect woman for my best (and only) friend. I wouldn't have wanted John to marry anyone else.

I suppose is was only a plus that she didn't hate me, perhaps she even liked me.

And maybe I could have been okay with this, with John leaving and moving on with someone else, someone I genuinely liked to the best of my capability, but not after what happened tonight.

I just could't believe all of them anymore. Things were not going to be okay.

Mary was pregnant and John was going to be a father sooner than I'd expected, and the two of them would have their own little family of three. No room for me anymore. They'd have a real baby to take care of.

I thought it would take years. Isn't that how it usually went? People got married, spent a few years together, got a puppy as practice then decided to have a baby or two. Of course, I knew John would end up with children eventually, he was always so good with them, but I'd put those thoughts at the back of my mind. A child would be the thing to really screw everything up and I didn't want to think about what it would mean for the two of us.

Now John would be caught up with a wife and work and a baby on the way. No room for friends that required a lengthy drive to see. No running off on cases where you could be shot or stabbed or worse. John had a family to think about now.

Sure, someone could make the case that this would only bring us closer. John would want me in the child's life, he might make me the godfather.

But honestly, who in their right mind would want me near a child? I blew things up and worked with dangerous chemicals and molds and body parts. I studied dead bodies and traipsed around crime scenes and chased after criminals. My life was dangerous and insane and I'd gotten John and myself nearly killed too many times to count, recently too, I'd gotten John stuck in a tube tram with a bomb and nearly blown him up. I was the kind of person people protected their children from. I was the monster.

I had to shake myself mentally. I couldn't do this anymore, I could't keep standing here in looking at all these happy people that didn't seem to notice how horrible I felt.

I could leave right now without anyone noticing. I probably should. There wasn't a point in staying, really, it's not like anyone wanted me here. Sherlock Holmes at a party, it was unthinkable. I'd only embarrass myself or someone else. I'd say something wrong to one of Mary's friends or get in a fight or God knows what and I'd ruin the night just like I'd ruined most of the day.

Yes, they didn't want me here. Why would they? I'd already caused enough trouble for the day. I'd already embarrassed John and Mary both, letting out a secret they weren't even aware of to an entire room of people. I'd done enough as it is.

They probably wanted to celebrate too, their wedding and the "wonderful" news I'd just given them.

And anyway, if I stayed I would end up sitting in a corner somewhere, drinking glass after glass of wine with a sour look on my face. I'd be nice and drunk before anyone noticed, before Mary would no doubt rush over and force me to dance, not taking no for an answer. John just get worried and Molly would just want to make sure I was okay before reminding herself that she loved Tom now, not me.

It's not like anyone would miss me. They wouldn't even notice I was gone.

It would be better if I left now.

The night was as good as over. I'd done what I was supposed to, what I promised John I would. I'd stayed for the ceremony and the food (which I actually ate, for once), I'd given my speech, despite how horrible and stressful it was. I even surprised the two of them with a song I'd composed specially for them.

I'd done more than enough.

Now I could go and leave the happy couple in peace.

And finally, I could get on with my own plans for the night. Things I'd been thinking about for a long time. Alcohol (or perhaps something stronger) sounded comforting right about now.

I checked to make sure nobody was watching. I had to be careful. Nobody could be allowed to see my leave, it would just arouse suspicion, and suspicion was not something I needed right now. No need to let on to anyone else how terrible I was feeling. It would only worry them, make them follow me.

I walked out of the room, winding through the sea of people and waiters. Nobody seemed to notice, all of them too drunk or distracted or a combination of both.

I was invisible.

I grabbed my coat from the coat check, pulling it on as I walked outside, feeling a rush of blessedly cold air swirl around me. I hadn't realized how hot it had been in there. Or maybe it was just me.

I did have to give it a few minutes through, just to be sure. I had to make sure nobody saw me and decided to follow me out here. I still had to hope, I suppose, that someone cared enough to follow me and make sure I was okay even though I'd never be honest anyway.

Bloody human emotions, always making things difficult.

I couldn't deny that I had them anymore, it just wasn't an option. For so long I'd shut myself away, refusing to feel. It'd worked for a while. I kept my distance, never got entangled in friendships or romantic relationships. Nobody could ever be used against me. But I decided to open myself up to someone, and in the end, I've only been hurt because of it. But the time I've gotten to spend with John before I had to go did not make up for the amount of time I'd been "dead" and gone. I'd hurt too much in the past two years to pretend I was some sort of machine. I was hurting to much now, actually, even if I would never admit it to anyone. I had trouble admitting it to myself.

Leaning against the carved stone railing, I dug a mostly empty, slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. It was amazing that John hadn't figured out I was smoking again. He should have been able to smell it on me, but he was probably distracted enough as it is what with the wedding and Mary and all.

I plucked one out and jammed it between my lips, lighting it deftly, a skill I'd had far too many years to practice.

Immediately, I felt a bit calmer, a bit better. Slowly, I exhaled, blowing the smoke out my nose and watching it billow and rise in the crisp air. I couldn't deny how beautiful it looked.

If someone found me right now, it would be easy enough to pretend I was just out having a smoke. I could follow the back into the party and sneak off later. Simple.

I thought I head footsteps behind me.

Maybe it was John, brow furrowed like it always was when he worried, trying to find me, trying to play therapist and find out what was wrong with me.

Maybe it was Mary, ready to drag me back inside.

Maybe it was Molly.

Maybe it was Lestrade.

I turned, holding the cigarette between my fingers, and holding my breath, hoping someone would be there.

Nobody.

Must have been my imagination. I'm hearing things again. I thought I was done with that.

I rested my elbows on the stone railing, lazily tapping the ash away. Not much longer and I should be in the clear.

Looking down, I realized the rather hideous boutonniere was still in my jacket pocket. I removed it, hesitating as I moved to drop it over the edge. I laid it on the railing instead, straightening myself and dropping the mostly finished cigarette to the ground, twisting my foot on top of it.

Look at me, already leaving signs for people to find me.

I walked out into the night, turning back once more to make sure nobody was following me. Hoping somebody was.

Nobody was.

* * *

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet, uneventful, though rather long. No calls. No angry texts. No "Sherlock, where bloody hell are you?". No "Why did you leave so soon?"

Looks like nobody had noticed.

I shoved the cabbie some notes as I felt the vehicle coming to a stop. I exited quickly, hoping to escape for the cab's frankly sweltering, stepping back into the cool night air.

I exhaled slowly as the cab pulled away, leaving me the only one on the street. The city seemed quieter tonight, if that was even possible.

My fingers fumbled for the keys. I ignored how they shook so violently.

I suppose I was finally acknowledging what leaving the wedding early meant for the night.

Finally, I managed to slip it in. I made my way up the steps, running my fingers along the wall, just remembering.

Mostly that first night with John, how we'd chased a cab through the streets and ended up back here, panting and, frankly, giggling. Giddy and high on excitement, the thrill of the chase. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the smile on John's face that night. It had brought me comfort in the past two years spent alone.

I pushed past the feelings and memories though, sure I would never have such a experience with John again. No more chasing cabs through London.

The game was over.

I entered the flat, not "our flat" but "mine" now, dropping my coat in a pile on the floor. I was alone, once more. John wasn't here to bother me about hanging it on a hook or at least draping it over a chair. Mrs. Hudson would't be home for hours, and the other tenants only bothered me when my experiments went awry and exploded. I don't even know their names.

I locked the doors anyway, both the sitting room and kitchen. No need for Mrs. Hudson to interrupt me.

I unbuttoned my suit jacket as I made my way to the bedroom, grabbing a change of clothes (unsure of their cleanliness, not that it mattered) and tossing the jacket on the bed. A shower sounded good right now.

I stepped into the bathroom, already working to undo the buttons on my shirt. I couldn't help but grimace at the sharp pain in my back.

I let the shirt drop to the floor, twisting and craning my neck in front of the mirror to get a look at my back.

Still streaked with wounds in varying states of healing, some of them still bandaged, resolutely refusing to heal, other scabbed over or turned to puckered, red scars.

I grimaced, turning around again to face myself in the mirror.

Pale skin, messy hair and tired but still sharp eyes ringed in deep half-moons stare back.

I haven't sleeping well, too many nightmares.

Nightmares of torture and pain, of falling, and of what could have happened.

Nightmares where John never forgave me, where Mary wasn't there to talk him around.

Nightmares where they found him, where they shot and killed the one man that truly seemed to matter.

I couldn't sleep, not matter how hard I tried.

I'm thinner too, almost remarkably so. Not only weight lost during the past two years, but weight lost very recently. My cheekbones were sharper, and if I looked down, I was sure to be greeted with the sight of grotesquely protruding ribs and hip bones.

John wasn't here to remind me to eat anymore, so I wasn't going to. I usually only manage to eat the tea and biscuits Mrs. Hudson brings me on occasion.

I just forget, that's all.

I'm surprised John hasn't noticed yet. How thin I was. How I winced whenever I moved the wrong way.

Shows how much he cares.

He hasn't noticed anything about me.

He hasn't noticed how bad things were. He hasn't noticed how sad I am.

Tearing my eyes away from my ghostly reflection, I strip down and step in the shower, reveling in the scalding hot water.

I should probably turn down the heat, it was starting to hurt.

I didn't really care, I let it go on.

When I stepped out, my skin was flushed and angry red.

I ignored it.

I changed quickly, making my way into the sitting room, where I sank down on the couch.

I stretched out, a thousand different voices filling my mind, all trying to tell me the same thing.

_No, don't do it. _

_You're being stupid. _

_You said yourself you were done with this. _

_It'll only make things worse. _

_It's never helped you in the past. _

_It's only destroyed. _

_Someone will find out. _

_Mycroft will find out. He knows everything. _

_He'll send you away again, just like he did last time. _

_John will just be disappointed, so disappointed. _

_He'll cut ties with you, or worse, treat you like some fragile, broken things. _

I punched the cushions, groaning.

The voices needed to stop. I had to make them stop.

John's voice, Lestrade's voice, Mycroft's voice, even Molly's, all weaving through my mind constantly. Trying to tell me what to do.

They were always there, constantly whispering in my ear. I hated them.

It started a long time ago. Sometimes for comfort, sometimes to remind me of things.

I'd embraced them at first, relishing in the fleeting familiarity of the voices in the alien parts of the world I was forced into.

Imagining John there for me, when I was being tortured, when I was hurt, when I was sick.

But now they were horrible. Now they only reminded that the real mouthpieces to the haunting voices were gone, that they weren't here, that they never would be.

Now they were just trying to stop me for doing what I wanted.

But they were just voices.

They weren't here, they couldn't stop me.

I was alone.

I would always end up alone, because people moved on. It was what they did.

John had moved on. Molly had moved on. Lestrade would move on too, running back to his ex wife who despised me. Maybe Mycroft would even find his goldfish.

I was alone. The voices couldn't tell me what to do.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," I muttered, fisting my hands in my hair.

I did know one thing that could make them stop.

Slowly, I rose from the couch, crossing the room. I knelt on the floor, pulling up the rug and a loose floorboard along with it.

I grabbed my new stash, hastily purchased the night before. A part of me seemed to have known how tonight would have ended.

But I'd been careful, making sure to avoid CCTV cameras. Mycroft didn't know, at least not yet. Nobody knew.

I returned to the couch, sitting up this time.

I laid everything out, mind already racing, remembering the steps as if it had been days instead of years since I'd last tried this.

I'd stayed clean in my two years away, hoping John would still be there when I came back.

He was gone now, and I was alone.

I stopped myself, hesitated for one moment.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Checking for messages, something, anything. Something to remind me that John still cared, that he was still there.

Nothing.

I suppose nobody noticed my absence.

It didn't make me feel any better. It only made me feel worse.

My movements were methodical now, well practiced and precise despite the violent shaking in my hands.

It took a few minutes, but finally it was ready.

I held the needle in my hand, enjoying the familiar sensation of the cool glass on my feverish skin and the weight of it against my fingers.

I gipped the needle tighter in one hand, unbuckling my belt and taking it off with the other.

I wrapped it around my arm, pulling it tighter with my teeth, the taste of the leather filling my mouth.

No turning back now.

The voices came back though, whispering.

_No._

_No, Sherlock._

_Don't do this. _

_Don't destroy everything. _

_John will be so..._

The voices were cut off my a sharp, but familiar sting. The needle was in.

Shaking, I depressed the plunger, shuddering as the blessed drug entered my system.

My first high in years. It felt wonderful, better than I ever remembered.

Everything faded, the world grew sluggish and slow, crawling like at a snail's pace.

Troubles slipped away, and, suddenly, I forgot what I was worrying about.

I forgot about John.

I forgot about the pain and the humiliation and the unending loneliness that was my life.

The high was all that mattered now.

I slipped back on the sofa, sighing contentedly and curling up around a pillow, a genuine smile playing across my lips for the first time in a long time.

I'd do anything to get rid of the voices.

* * *

**Yeah...so I don't even know what that was. Well, it was probably just a one-shot. I mean, I could write more but I'm not sure if I will... **

**Really, it was just an experiment in the first person. **

**So please, tell me what you think. **

**Please? **


	2. Chapter 2

**So I guess I'll continue this, since people seem interested. **

**Warning: drug use, mentions of suicide, and mental illness ahead my friends**

* * *

And so it became ritual once again.

Almost every day. Quick injections, familiar pinches to the skin. Apathy afterward, or else a lazy, fitful sleep. Pure bliss.

I kept up appearances though. I had to, lest arise suspicion.

Nobody could know, so nothing much changed.

I still met Mrs. Hudson at the door almost every morning, when she'd drop off tea and some sort of breakfast item, the only food I allowed myself to consume for the day. I always checked to make sure I presentable, made sure my pupils were normal and such. I couldn't have her start wondering what was wrong with me.

I hid my the bruised skin at the crook of my elbow with dressing gowns and long sleeves.

I got dressed on the days I went out, the fleeting hours when Lestrade would call me to a crime scene or when I needed to stop by Bart's for something.

I shaved and showered, I wore clean clothes.

I experimented and took cases, despite the fact that they'd lost their effect on me. It just wasn't the same without John there. Molly had been a poor substitute.

I pretended everything was okay, even if it wasn't.

Only because I needed the drugs.

If I pretended things were fine, I could keep them.

And because of that, I usually reserved my questionable practices for nighttime, when Mrs. Hudson was long asleep and I didn't have to worry about anyone showing up and finding me. During the day the only thing that kept me from using was the hope that Lestrade would text me about a case or a client would show up. It wasn't quite like old times, but it was good enough. There was no way I'd be able to show up high in front of at a crime scene, Lestrade would notice immediately. He had entirely too much experience in the matter. So I kept to the darkness.

But even on the days I had a case, the voices still whispered, almost always John. At every crime scene, he still seemed to be there with me, telling me what I was doing wrong, reminding me I wasn't in my right mind, that I shouldn't even be there. Pointing out everything I missed because of sleep deprivation. Because I couldn't see straight. Because I felt like I was going to faint, liable to the fact I hadn't eaten in days and didn't plan on it. Because all I could think about was the next high.

It was annoying. And hurtful.

It only made me want the drugs more. Anything to shut the voice in my head up.

But there were still days when I felt like I was drowning, like I was falling again. When everything was dark and everything seemed hopeless.

There were still days when the voices became too much to bear, when I couldn't ignore them and push them away anymore. All I could do to silence them was inject.

Those were the days I binged, harder than I could ever remember.

I usually only allowed myself a little bit, just a small hit under the cover of darkness, just enough to get me through the night. Just enough to get me to sleep. To soften the voices a little, make their remarks a little less biting.

But sometimes I couldn't take it anymore. Sometimes it all became too much.

I'd lock the doors and close the curtain. Never answer my phone.

I would keep myself in a perpetual high, taking hit after hit after hit. So much I was surprised I hadn't overdosed yet.

I would just let go, not caring what happened.

I wasn't in my right mind, that was for certain.

I didn't care that it might kill me. I didn't care that it would probably be Mrs. Hudson to find me after, lifeless and cold on the couch. I didn't care about the people that might miss me, though somehow I doubted they would.

They'd gone without me for two years, thinking I was dead. They could go without me again.

John would get over it, he had Mary now. He had a baby on the way. He had a future ahead that didn't involve me. He didn't need me anymore. He was healed.

Lestrade would be fine. He always was. It isn't like he cared all that much anyway. I doubt he missed me much when I was gone, even though he'd hugged me. Probably just because he was glad he didn't have to feel guilty anymore.

Molly would get over it too. She had Tom now, and he was like a better version of me. My looks (though I honestly didn't understand why Molly ever found me attractive in the first place) along with a small portion of my intelligence without the sociopathy. She would be fine.

And it wasn't like Mycroft would care at all. He'd detached himself from me years ago. He didn't care much about anything these days.

Nobody cared, so neither did I.

I wasn't necessarily going to try to kill myself though, not again.

Well, maybe just not yet.

But I wasn't going to stop myself from bingeing either. I wasn't going to regulate my dosage to carefully like I had in the past.

I suppose that meant I was giving up.

Whatever happens, I don't care. Perhaps I die soon or I keep on living like this, surrounded by people so blissfully unaware of the turmoil I hid so carefully.

Maybe they wouldn't know until they found me dead.

But maybe they would see something, some kind of pleading pain in my eyes.

Maybe they would realize I needed help, maybe they would realize I was in pain.

It scared me. Living without the drugs.

So much had changed, I'd become dependent quickly, almost scarily so.

It scared me thinking that someone would find out, that they'd get Mycroft involved and he'd lock me up again. They would think I was crazy, hearing voices in my head.

I would never know freedom again if they found out.

A part of me didn't care, a part wanted to die and leave everything behind.

But another part of me wanted to be saved, even if it scared me.

I didn't yet know what part would win.

* * *

**Tell me what you think? If anyone had any suggestions, I'm certainly open.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So this one is a bit shorter, I hope to update again soon.**

* * *

I felt myself slipping away.

Letting wave after wave of the drug roll over me.

But I wasn't floating in a peaceful sea of intoxication anymore, the drug no longer sang in my veins, whiting out the darkness that now consumed me.

The pure euphoria could only last so long.

No, I was drowning now. Drowning in an undulating ocean of demons and grime.

Every time the needle pierced my skin it was like I was being dragged under the filthy water again, the monsters digging their claws into me and pulling me deeper and deeper still.

Lungs unable to function. Brain going fuzzy. Body growing limp. Threatening to burst.

Fighting my way back up was the worst, feeling the talons rip and shred my flesh as I pulled away desperately, panicking, thrashing.

Breaking the surface, gasping for air, jaw hooked open.

But it was getting harder.

I wasn't able to fight anymore.

I took too much effort, and I just kept being dragged deeper.

Sometimes it was just easier to stay under the surface, unable to breath, unable to think.

That scared me, quite a lot actually.

Of course it wasn't all bad, there was still those moments of euphoria, of overwhelming clarity after each injection when the waters cleared a bit, turning crystal blue for what seemed like half a second before slipping back to oily black.

But the crash and the fight to get back to some sense of sobriety seemed to outlast anything positive, the water staying black far more often than blue.

Each pleasant high growing shorter as the dosage crept ever upward.

Building up a tolerance.

Dangerous.

Leads to fatal overdoses.

Not that I cared, really.

And because of the tolerance, because of the brevity of those torturously short moments of sparkling clarity, I found myself increasingly unable to resist the temptation during the day.

I started injecting at any hour, whenever I felt I needed it, abandoning all the rules I'd set for myself.

The days I spent drowning and resurfacing far outnumbered the days where I accomplished anything.

I was shutting down, getting sloppy.

Making mistake after mistake.

It was a wonder nobody had found out yet.

They were blind and absent.

One morning, I'd woken up from my fitful sleep late in the afternoon only to realize I'd forgotten to close the doors the night before.

Mrs. Hudson could have barged in at any point, carrying a tray filled with breakfast items in a futile attempt to fatten me up, only to find me passed out on the sofa surrounded by discarded syringes and other illicit paraphernalia.

But she'd been away at her sister's place. I hadn't even know, despite the fact that she'd surely told me or left me a note.

It could have ruined everything.

And Lestrade should have noticed the way I turned down cases, not just because they were ones or twos, not worth my time. I was turning down cases I would have normally jumped over.

I didn't trust myself anymore.

I didn't trust myself to hide the bruises creeping slowly down my arms.

I didn't trust myself not to pass out from exhaustion or low blood sugar or some combination of both.

I didn't trust myself to be sober when he called on me.

So cases were a bust now, not really a loss anyway.

They weren't the same, and giving up on them just meant one less person to be around, one less person who could see what was going on.

Because, frankly, I was kidding myself if I thought Lestrade would still be a part of my life if I stopped taking his cases. He was just another one of many that used me for my mind.

Who could possibly care enough about me to maintain a relationship without any sort of benefit?

Everyone had found benefit from me.

I helped Lestrade build his reputation, I helped him solve cases.

I gave John a chance to get his adrenaline pumping.

Molly got to moon after me all day.

They'd never be able to stand me if they weren't reaping the benefits.

I'd learned that many years ago.

So they wouldn't care if I was gone, they would find new people to serve my role.

Lestrade would actually consult his own police team for a change. It was better that way, no chance of legal trouble.

Molly had Tom, a man who loved her far more than I ever could.

And John. Well, John didn't need me anymore. He didn't need the adrenaline. It was time for him to settle down with a family. He could have his boring married life.

Without them, I am worthless.

And to them, I am nothing. A place filler, ready to be replaced by someone less sociopathic.

I'm simply killing time, waiting for the cocktail of drugs coursing through my veins to kill me and give me relief from this worthlessness.

* * *

**Please let me know what you think, and any suggestions are more than welcome.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hope you enjoy...**

* * *

**(John's POV)**

**Pub tonight? Its been ages- GL**

I smiled at the text message. Greg was right, it had been ages since we'd seen each other. Not since the wedding over a month ago.

That didn't sound very good, come to think of it.

It's not like a was _avoiding _seeing everyone. I refused to turn into one of those people whose's life changes when they get married. People had been going on and on about how things would change, but I was confident Nothing was going to change, at least not too drastically.

I was just very busy. That was all. It wasn't my fault.

Mary and I had left for our honeymoon in Scotland the night of the wedding, and we'd stayed there a week and a half. Cell service up there had been awful too, so I didn't really have contact with anyone...

And when I got back, I was busy with work, along with Mary. Days at the surgery were long and tiring, full of awkward patients. We were both too tired to bother going out after work, so we usually just spent nights in together.

But things would even out soon. I would get back into a steady work schedule and I'd be able to see Lestrade and Sherlock again. I did really miss them.

But I'm sure Sherlock was fine. He'd been fine before the wedding, and since nothing had changed, he'd be fine now.

Maybe I wouldn't be able to go on as many cases with him, what with a baby on the way, but he should still be perfectly fine.

And to prove that, I messaged Greg back, telling him I'd be there straight after work.

I messaged Mary too, letting her know where I'd be.

Tonight was going to be nice. I was finally getting a chance to catch up on what was going on.

I walked in the bar later that night, shedding my coat in the pleasant heat.

I looked around for Greg, finally finding him in a booth with two pints of beer. I grinned, weaving my way towards him.

"Long time no see, Watson," he said, smiling tiredly, as I dropped into the booth across from him. Probably a long day at work.

"You too," I agreed as he nudged a pint over to me.

"Oh, uh, congrats by the way. You know...you and Mary. I'm sure you'll be a great dad."

"Thanks. Means a lot...coming from you, I suppose," I replied, taking a sip of the drink. This really shouldn't be so awkward. They'd been out for drinks plenty of times before and it'd never been like this. Had things really changed?

"Look...John. I guess I didn't just call you here for some drinks, to catch up and all. It's about Sherlock...I'm worried about him," Greg began uncertainly.

"What d'you mean?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"He's just seemed really...I dunno, distant lately. Just a bit off, it might be nothing serious. But you know him and change, he doesn't do too well. When was the last time you saw him?"

Crap. Should I be worried? Greg had know Sherlock far longer than I had, he'd seen Sherlock through plenty of danger nights. If _he _was worried, should I be? Should I have gone to see Sherlock earlier?

"Uh, not since the wedding. I mean, Mary and I left for the honeymoon right after and I just haven't had much time, with work and...and the baby," I said, trying to defend myself as best I could. Now it was occurring to me that these were pretty shitty excuses for not seeing Sherlock.

"Jesus, John," Lestrade muttered, "You should probably go see him soon, I don't want this to get out of control. Again, it might...might be nothing, but with him you always have to be sure."

"What even brought this up? He's been distant ever since he got back from...from god know's where, I don't really understand," I replied, trying to salvage the conversation.

"He turned down one of my cases. Not, like, a two or three. Brilliant case, it's got my team stumped and he turned it down and didn't even tell me why. It's an eight, maybe, a nine, by his standards. I mean, he's done it before if he's got something on his own plate, but now...I'm not so sure. I haven't heard from him in days..."

I sighed and checked my watch. Not to late to drop by.

"You know what...if you don't mind, I think I'll head out, drop by and see if he's around."

"Sounds good, mate. See you soon?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," I muttered, already getting up and pulling my coat on after only a few minutes in the bar.

The cab ride to Baker Street was awful. I couldn't help but drum my fingers on my knee. Should I be nervous? No...no. Everything was fine. Sherlock was fine. He was probably just busy with something of his own, or maybe Mycroft had enlisted his help on some matter of national importance.

I hopped out of the cab, handing the driver a few notes. The night was cold and windy, and my hands trembled a little as I tried to shove my spare key in the front door. Out of cold or anxiety, I wasn't sure.

There wasn't a light on in Mrs. Hudson's flat when he got inside. She must be sleeping or visiting her sister. I sighed making my way up the stairs.

I knocked on the door to what had once been my flat. Nothing. No footsteps. Nothing.

I tired the doorknob. Locked.

I shoved my spare key in, thankful I still had them on my key ring.

The door squeaked as it opened, and I was hit with a blast of stale, musty air and an unidentifiable stench, but a horrible one nonetheless, coming from somewhere in the flat.

My nose wrinkled, but my heart immediately started racing along with my mind.

Bad smells and musty air and locked doors were bad, really really bad.

My hands were shaking now, definitely out of anxiety now.

God, please let him be okay. Please don't let the smell be what I think it is.

I looked around the flat, peering through the darkness. The thick curtains on the closed windows let barely any of the dim, yellow outdoor light in.

Sherlock wasn't in the sitting room, and he wasn't in the kitchen either.

Part of me had been hoping to find him asleep on the couch or at the kitchen table and that the awful smell was simply coming from one of the experiments involving decaying body parts or mould that I'd never let him do.

But no experiments. The kitchen table was clear, and so was the coffee table.

I walked down the silent hallway, the unbearable smell getting stronger still. It was quiet, entirely too quiet. The only sounds were my squeaking footsteps and the car whizzing outside.

I checked the bathroom door. Unlocked.

I stepped inside, flicking on the lights.

The room flooded with white light, illuminating absolutely nothing. Clean white tiles and porcelain fixtures, but no Sherlock.

That left only one option. Sherlock's bedroom.

This was not good.

Oh God, please no.

Please.

I crept silently towards the door at the end of the hallway, hand hovering over the weathered door knob.

The smell was becoming unbearable. I pulled the collar of my shirt up in an attempt to stop it from invading my nose.

Please no. Please please let it be anything else.

Please don't let it be Sherlock. Please don't let him be dead, don't let him have killed himself over...over me.

Please God. Please don't let me find him like this. I couldn't do it again. I couldn't live without him. I was realizing that again.

I closed my eyes and slowly gripped the knob, pulling the door open and almost gagging at the influx of the damn putrid odor.

I couldn't open my eyes.

I couldn't look.

All I could do was smell.

And what I smelled seemed to tell me all I needed to know.

* * *

**So um...yeah. That just kinda popped into my mind today and I had to write it. Don't expect anything until Friday night at the earliest, probably later. I SHOULD BE STUDYING FOR MY FREAKING ENGLISH MIDTERM RIGHT NOW BUT I'M WRITING THIS AND IT A HORRIBLE DECISION I WILL PROBABLY REGRET LATER. **

**But on the bright side...Benedict Cumberbatch was on Sesame Street...and it was adorable and they made a bunch of Sherlock jokes.**

**Alright...um, hope to see you soon and PLEASE tell me what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**After having a major freak out over my English exam, I ended up with a 92...and a perfect score on my essay...yeah, I'm actually shocked. **

**So as promised since it's Friday and my exams are over, here is your update!**

**I'll uh...let you get on with it since I know plenty of you were waiting for it.**

**And also, thank you so much to all the people who have followed, favorited, and especially reviewed this little story. Honestly guys, this was just supposed to be an experiment in first person writing :) I never exactly intended it to go this far and I never thought anyone would actually read it**

**Warning- gore, suicide references, drug references**

* * *

I opened my eyes, peering into the dark room ahead of me, all light blocked by the drawn curtains.

There was a dark form on the bed, that much I could see.

A very Sherlock-shaped lump.

It was the only thing I could see.

I forced my feet to move. Forced my legs to work even if they didn't want to.

Something crunched under my feet. It sounded like broken glass.

I looked down.

Broken needles littered the floor, leading a trail to the bed.

Stepping on broken glass was the only sound in the room now. No breathing. Not even mine.

I was holding my breath. Partially to keep out the smell.

It only got stronger as I approached, invading my nostrils and staying there, even through the fabric of my shirt. I could taste it on my tongue.

I suppose I already knew what I was about to see.

I'd smelled this smell enough times to know what it meant.

I knelt down and looked at the form curled on the bed.

It was a body. The body of my best friend. I was sure of it.

I forced my hands to fumble for the bedside lamp, trying to turn on the light.

When I managed to flick the switch, it felt like I was seeing everything at once.

I would never be able to wipe the image from my mind. It was burned there forever.

His body. Sherlock's body.

Bloated. Twisted. Distorted. Features indistinguishable and shrouded by his tangled, too long dark hair.

Skin tinged black and green with patches of decay.

Dead for days, judging by the smell.

No. No. This wasn't happening. This couldn't possibly be real.

Sherlock couldn't be dead. He just couldn't.

I closed my eye, holding them shut tight. I held my breath. Willing the image in front of me to disappear and for Sherlock to walk into the room behind me, perfectly healthy and very much alive.

It didn't.

When I opened my eyes, Sherlock was still there. Still dead and decomposing.

I reached out, hands trembling wildly now, swallowing down waves of bile.

My fingertips touched the once silky fabric of his favorite dressing gown, trailing down and accidentally brushing against the discolored skin. I felt it slide under my hand, sloughing off my best friend's body, already to the point where it was blistering and peeling.

Oh God. I pulled my hand back, trembling violently and unable to stop the tremors wracking ym body.

No.

Oh God no.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

Sherlock wasn't supposed to die like this. He wasn't supposed to be dead at all.

And he surely wasn't supposed to end up like one of the bodies we'd always investigated. He wasn't supposed to be just another black and green corpse surrounded by a bed of dirty needles, obviously having overdosed. Had it not been for the rot, I'm sure I would have been able to see ugly bruises and angry red track marks from the constant injections. Heroin, maybe cocaine, maybe both combined.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end between us.

There was so much I'd never gotten to say. So much I didn't know if he understood.

Sherlock was supposed to stay. He was supposed to solve brilliant crimes and catch killers. He was supposed to be my friend. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

He would have been my baby's godfather. He was...he was supposed to teach them all sorts of inappropriate things and show them pictures of dead bodies and I was supposed to get fake mad at him even though I was secretly glad that Sherlock would be around to raise my son or daughter with me.

"Oh God...no," I found myself mumbling.

I'd caused this. This was my fault.

I hadn't been there for him.

He'd needed me and I'd been to busy to notice he wasn't well, that he was sick. That he was using drugs again.

I'd been too stupid to notice. Too stupid.

Too stupid.

I was a horrible friend. I was horrible. Oh God, no. I'd killed him. Sherlock Holmes was gone and it was all my fault.

I was a monster.

I couldn't keep the tears back any longer.

They started flowing freely, growing into heavy, choking sobs as my chest tightened and breathing became a chore.

So I sat there, not knowing what to do. Not knowing how to respond to this. Just kneeling there, sobbing in front of the body of my once best friend as errant flies buzzed at my ears and landed on his exposed skin. This man, this man who had once been so alive, who's last vow had been to protect me and my wife and our unborn child he would never get the chance to meet, was dead, and it was entirely my fault.

* * *

And that was one of the many possible scenarios that played in front of my eyes as I stood in the doorway, eyes still shut tight and unwilling to open.

I saw so many others too, flashing behind my closed eyelids.

Hanging from the ceiling fan or the bar in his closet, rope around his neck.

Curled in bed, arms crusted with dried blood from self-inflicted wounds.

Surrounded by empty pill bottles.

Surrounded by needles and powders and vials of unidentifiable liquids.

Drenched in blood from a wound sustained on a case, one I hadn't been there to stitch up.

Even dropped dead of starvation, a skeleton , bones grotesquely protruding because I hadn't been there to force him eat.

I saw everything, ever possibility.

And they were all my fault in one way or another.

He'd needed me, always needed me whether it was to remind him to eat or patch him up when he was hurt or just keep him grounded

I'd left him alone for a month, and I would have left him longer if it hadn't been for Lestrade. Sherlock had been nervous enough already, though he'd refused to admit it. I'd pretended like everything was fine, that I would see him again shortly after my honeymoon.

I'd promised him things wouldn't change, and I'd broken that promise.

It was like I knew he was already dead before I opened my eyes. What else could it be?

But I still prayed, silently, that I wouldn't have to find him. That I wouldn't have to see my best friend, the man that had saved my life, like that, like I'd imagined.

I prayed that we would still have time together. I'd spent two years without him. Two long, hellish years marked with depression only alleviated by Mary, and even then not fully. I couldn't do that again, I couldn't do survive it. It wasn't fair. I'd just gotten him back, he wasn't supposed to be gone already. I still needed him.

I prayed that I would still have a chance to save him.

So I finally opened my eyes, still not entirely prepared to face what was very likely the rotting body of my best friend.

* * *

There was nothing.

I blinked, looking around the room.

It still smelled horrible, but I wasn't seeing any of the things I though I would.

Sherlock wasn't hanging from ceiling or in the bed or curled on the floor. In fact, the bed was tightly made and didn't look like it'd been slept in for a long time.

There didn't seem to be anything in the room, not a single living creature.

I couldn't tell if that was better or worse.

Steeling myself, I fumbled around the room for a moment and flicked on the lights, immediately zoning in on the source of the smell.

Sherlock's desk, shoved against the wall opposite his habitually unused bed, was covered in unkempt experiments.

I walked over to take a closer look, almost gagging at the stench radiating from it. There were several petri dishes growing mold and something covered in a sheet, soaked through with old blood and covered in a thickening blanket of flies. I took the corner of the cloth between my two fingers, pulling it up to reveal an assortment of what were probably animal organs in varying states of decomposition.

Probably a normal experiment to Sherlock Holmes.

I sighed relievedly. So he wasn't dead, just in the middle of some pretty grotesque experiments.

But as my singular focus faded, other things came into view.

Scattered around the desk were leafs and leafs of hand-written notes written in Sherlock's messy scrawl, some crumpled and stained. My brow furrowed. While his area was usually a bit messy, it was never like this during the middle of an experiment. There had always been an organization to his chaos. Usually, he cleaned up his mess when he was done with work for the day, neatly leaving his cultures or whatever he was working on the kitchen table and a stack of fresh notes on his desk in the sitting room. Point being that it was unlike him to be this messy and it was unlike him to leave an experiment like this. Had he left in a hurry?

I also began to notice the myriad of teacups and mugs littering the room, some spilled and cracked on the floor, having fallen off the desk. The ones still containing liquid were growing a fuzzy layer of green mold.

Sherlock almost never made tea, and he always drank it if he did.

Something was wrong. Perhaps I'd been too quick to think that everything was okay just because I hadn't found Sherlock.

I turned my attention to his notes, managing to decipher the black ink. None of it seemed to mention decomposition at all. Had...had he not been measuring it? If the experiment wasn't dealing with rotten organs, did that mean this wasn't the goal? Had he left in the middle of an experiment and never came back, leaving the organs to go unchecked for days? That seemed the most likely case...

So if Sherlock wasn't in the flat and hadn't been there for days, where in God's name was he?

* * *

**Did I have you going there for a minute? Sorry 'bout that but I couldn't resist XD**

**Well...we're not out of the woods yet. What has Sherlock gotten himself into this time?**

**Please let me know what you think and stick around, I hope to be back soon with more!**


	6. Chapter 6

**That last chapter received the most reviews I've ever gotten on a single chapter on any story here :) It even dethroned my reunion chapter in WYIBMAB! So thanks for that, I just couldn't resist being so trolly!**

**And seriously guys...79 followers! That is insane, especially considering I wasn't even planning on continuing this story very far. But I'm gonna make it longer, draw it out and make it even more painful to read :P**

**Also so sorry for the lag, I've been sick and trying to catch up in school :(**

**But today was another snow day...again. I'm honestly sick and tired of the freaking snow, it seems like the moment it finally starts to melt it comes right back...**

**But anyway, hope you enjoy...**

* * *

The panic started to set in immediately as I shifted my weight to lean against the desk.

This was a bit not good.

Where was Sherlock? What had he gotten himself into this time?

I went to take several deep breaths in an attempt to calm myself down, but almost choked on the smell, momentarily forgetting the stench of mold and rotten meat filling the room.

Shakily breathing out and refusing to sputter, I forced myself to think for a moment. I couldn't let this panic get the best of me. I had to stay calm and clear my mind. I had to make a plan.

I shook my head violently in some desperate attempt to force away the thoughts brewing in my head. All I could imagine was Sherlock dying or already dead, collapsed in some alleyway somewhere.

"Get it together Watson," I murmured to myself. It could be nothing...it could honestly be nothing.

Okay. First thing, get rid of the smell.

I had to force myself to get moving again, my feet stumbling and hands shaking as I crossed the surprisingly empty room to the window, unlocking it and pulling it up. Hopefully some air would help.

I eyed the decaying pile of organs cautiously. How in God's name was I supposed to dispose of this?

I left the room, making my way towards the kitchen. I knelt down, pawing through the cabinet under the sink looking for trash bags and perhaps a can of disinfectant. Thankfully, they were both still there, yet to be thrown away from my time in the flat.

Contemplating things for a moment, I decided to just clean of the table in one sweep, tossing the organs, mold specimens, and contaminated glassware and mugs into the trash bag all at once. Tying the bag off and dropping it gently to the floor, I moved to coat the desk in a spray of the disinfectant, holding my sleeve over my nose.

I sighed to myself. Room one, done.

I moved back into the sitting room, returning the can to the table and opening the windows, ignoring the huge clouds of dust the heavy drapes emitted when they were moved, letting in the pale yellow light from the street lamps. I popped outside to toss the bag in the bins, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind. She must be used to the horrible smells by now.

I quietly climbed the stairs, hoping not to wake Mrs. Hudson if she was home.

Okay, the smell has been dealt with.

I shut my eyes and collapsed on the disheveled sofa, head in my hands. I let out several deep breaths, trying to calm down my now raging anxiety. A cold wind blew through the room and I shivered violently. God, it was bloody freezing out. And...and Sherlock might be out there. Alone and cold.

I fisted my hands in my hair, angry at myself for thinking like that.

No. No. Sherlock was fine. This was all going to be fine. He must just be on a case. Someone must know where he is. Maybe...maybe he was even working with Molly. I know they'd worked together a bit when I was still mad with him.

It was probably nothing.

I decided to text Lestrade anyway, just in case. He might be able to help.

The worried reply came a few minutes later, and Lestrade assured he would be there in ten minutes.

I leant back on the sofa, running a hand over my face.

It was going to be fine, I kept repeating to myself. But repeating that little mantra didn't stop my thoughts from racing to every horrid possibility.

* * *

I was roused from my thoughts by hurried footsteps. I immediately shot up from the sofa as the door burst open, revealing a wide-eyed Greg, lit cigarette (a newly resurrected nervous habit of his) dangling from his lips.

"Bloody hell, it's freezing in here," he began, shivering, "And...and what's that smell? It smells like something died!."

"My thoughts exactly," I choppily remarked, raking a hand through my hair and shifting my eyes to Sherlock's abandoned bedroom.

"What are you trying to say?"

"God, Greg. I-I thought he was dead. Dead. When I walked in here and...and I smelled that, I thought it was over. I-I thought he was gone and...and that it was my fault. Oh God, I was so sure he was dead," I babbled, pacing nervously.

"Well where is he?" Greg questioned, eyebrows raised.

"I-I don't know. He hasn't been here for...for days, obviously. There was moldy tea and rotting experiments in his room, that's where the smell was coming from. Do...do you have _any _idea where he could be?"

"I haven't a better idea than you. But it...it still might be nothing. Maybe he's on a case and didn't think to tell you," he replied, already sounding uncertain.

I swallowed hard, "Yeah...maybe. But I'm still...I'm still worried. I think that he might...he might have relapsed again. I-I mean, what if he did? It's all I could imagine, him dead of an overdose in his room. He could be out there right now Greg. Passed out and freezing in some dirty alley or worse. He could...oh God."

Greg crossed the room quickly, placing a hand on my involuntarily shuddering shoulders and stopping me in my tracks.

"Calm down. Whatever's going on, there's nothing we can do about it now, it's too late at night. How about you get home and we regroup in the morning? We'll make some calls, see if anyone knows where he is, maybe get a hold of his brother. If nothing turns up, we report him as missing and get the police looking for him, Mycroft too. I'll even go out with you looking with you if it makes you feel better, I already have a few ideas of where he might be if he's relapsed. If something's wrong, and mind you there might be nothing wrong, we _will _find him, John. I promise you that," Greg assured me, shaking my shoulder for good measure.

"Fine...fine. I should be getting home anyway. I'll...I'll call you in the morning," I mumbled, shaking my head tiredly.

And so we parted ways, promising to see each other the next morning. I couldn't help but stare out the window as London whizzed by on my way back home.

I hoped Sherlock was okay, preferably someplace warm, even though that was most likely not the case. Part of me seemed to know he'd relapsed, that he was missing and maybe even dying. But please just let him be okay.

One more miracle. Please, just one more.

* * *

**I'm not entirely happy with that chapter :( sorry**

**It will get better, but I just needed to get that bit out of the way before I can get to the main part.**

**And thanks to PuraStones for the idea**

**Love all y'all for the support, and I hope to be back around soon**

**Reviews make my day, so let me know what you think!**


	7. Chapter 7

**OH. MY. GOD. I AM SOOOOO SORRY! I AM SERIOUSLY SO SORRY FOR LEAVING THIS FOR SO LONG! I never meant to take this long, I've just been so busy with school and other writing stuff and I just forgot about this and god I am so sorry! Seriously, really really really sorry. But on the upside...this story has 90 followers...seriously! 90 followers in such a short amount of time is insane! INSANE! Okay, so I'm going a bit crazy right now, so I'll just let you guys get on with this... And I'm still sorry... **

* * *

I didn't sleep well that night. The nightmares kept me up without fail. I would wake up out of breath, but never loud enough to wake Mary up. She was a deep sleeper, which I suppose was a good thing living with me.

Nightmares were a frequent occurrence. Tonight was the worst night in a long time though. I'd wake up gasping and she'd remain curled on her side of the bed, breathing deeply, and I would just lie there, trying to control myself. My head would hit the pillow once again and I'd just concentrate on matching our breathing patterns. I'd go back to sleep, only to repeat the process every few hours.

At least I never woke her up.

But they weren't normal nightmares, the ones about the war that'd kept me up screaming in the months after returning from Afghanistan and even now still. Not even horrible scenes that had invaded my nights after Sherlock's "suicide".

No, I didn't dream about the bloody-faced soldiers that died under my scalpel despite my best efforts or the beating, blindingly hot sun, nor did I dream of Sherlock standing on the damned roof.

But I did dream of flashing images just wouldn't stop, the same nightmare over and over and over again on a loop.

It was like when I'd walked into Baker Street, when I'd smelled that god forsaken smell of rotting meat and all those imagined circumstances filled my head, even though they should't have. It wasn't as if Sherlock had never experimented with mold and organs. I'd come home to smells like that before, however infrequently.

It was like my mind was convinced my best friend was gone, maybe even dead. It was like I was finally realizing that I'd been a horrible friend, that I'd left him alone and replaced him with Mary. I'd promised him, actually promised him that everything was going to be fine after I married her. I told him nothing was going to change, that he was still my best friend. Some friend I am.

But I still kept dreaming the same dream all night. I kept dreaming that he was gone, that he was missing and using again, that it was all my fault. That I'd let him down. That I was a horrible friend.

I kept dreaming about searching for him through foul-smelling alley and under bridges and in dingy crack houses, so many hell-holes that smelled of stale urine and festering wounds and body odor, all so much worse than Baker Street that one night. And each time I'd find him after walking down the same hallway with the peeling wallpaper and decrepit, creaking floor boards, collapsed on a stained mattress with a rusted needle sticking out of his arm.

And he'd always be just barely dead.

I would only be a few minutes too late. A few minutes after the overdose stopped his heart. A few minutes before he died.

I would always, always be too late to save him.

No matter how many time I dreamed that fucking dream, it would always start all over again.

Eventually, I just gave up on sleep, lying there next to my wife, who'd taken the place of Sherlock in his two year absence and filled the hole the infuriating man had left. But I couldn't just sit in bed, waiting. I had to do something. I carefully shifted out of bed, hoping to not wake Mary.

She still didn't know about any of this. I'd brushed my feelings under the rug when I'd gotten home, still to the point of trying to convince myself that Sherlock was okay. I didn't tell her what'd happened at Baker Street, I didn't share with her my worries or my guilt. And she never woke up to see my nightmares. So she didn't know.

Greg actually ended up calling me while I was about halfway through my third cup of coffee (a rapidly failing attempt at keeping myself awake). My heart jolted when I heard the ringing. Oh God, it was finally time to talk about this. I didn't want to.

I tried to convince myself that everything was fine. Greg was going to have good news. He was just calling to tell me that Sherlock was fine, that he was on some case in Scotland or something like that. No, Greg was calling to tell me that Sherlock was fine and safe, because he just had to be. He...he just had to be.

I took the phone call in silence, face set. I heard what Greg had to say and nothing more, I didn't speak, I couldn't. I hung up the phone just as he finished speaking and just as Mary was walking into the kitchen, yawning and stretching her arms over her head.

My face crumpled and my head folded into my hands. Oh god no.

Mary seemed to pick up on it immediately, her own brow creasing with worry. She knew something was wrong.

Because Greg's phone call did not bring the good news I'd hoped for.

Things were not okay.

* * *

**Well...I hope you enjoyed that frankly uninteresting chapter. I just need to get back into this, and hopefully, I'll be able to update sooner. **

**Drop me a review and tell me what you think :) **

**(Also, I'm still really really really sorry)**


	8. Chapter 8

**I'm back :)**

**Hope you enjoy this update, and don't forget to tell me what you think!**

* * *

_...Things were not okay._

Oh God no, they weren't okay.

Sherlock Holmes was missing. Vanished without a trace.

Gone.

Nobody had any clue as to where he was either.

Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's house out in the country and hadn't been at Baker Street in days. When questioned, she reported him acting a bit out of the ordinary, so abnormal, in fact, that she'd considered phoning me.

Molly had no clue where he was, he hadn't been dropping by the morgue recently. She hadn't seen him in a solid two weeks and was starting to worry.

Mycroft couldn't even be reached, too busy with the raging political scene and the Korean elections. It's not like he would know where Sherlock was either. If he'd know about anything going on, he would have told me.

Nobody knew anything.

In the end, Lestrade sent in a few selected member of his team search the apartment, off the books, of course. Even Anderson was there.

Another drugs bust, just to be sure.

But this wasn't like the old days when Lestrade would hold the busts just to piss Sherlock off. It wasn't to get some withheld criminal evidence off him. It didn't go on for an hour before they gave up and left before Sherlock started a screaming match.

They actually found something this time.

It took a while, considering how well it was hidden, but they found it. Sherlock's stash.

Anderson had just been walking across the room when he tripped over the corner of the rug, revealing a suspicious floorboard, which upon being pulled up, revealed a box.

And the box was full of drugs. Full of vials and packets of powder and capped syringes and lighters and burnt knew where he was now, even if we didn't know exactly knew what he was doing.

Sherlock was somewhere on the streets of London, high as a kite. Maybe in some damp, rat-infested alley. Maybe in some decrepit old crack house. Maybe under a bridge. Anywhere.

He could be anywhere in this whole entire city, and we still couldn't reach Mycroft, the one person that might be able to help.

As much as it pained me to admit it, we needed Mycroft, even if this would inevitably end with Sherlock locked away for God knows how long.

Lestrade and I couldn't do this alone.

We need Mycroft's surveillance, we need his men out looking for Sherlock.

Just like the last time this happened.

Lestrade had been through this before, twice actually. Long before I'd come around, long before Sherlock had settled down at Baker Street and pledged himself to sobriety when I found out about his old habits.

No, this was when Sherlock drifted through London, vacillating between sleeping rough in parks and scrounging up enough cash for boarding houses with rent by the week. He drifted because he didn't want to be found by Mycroft, didn't want to be forced back into rehab where he'd be strapped to a bed and force-fed medications.

But then Lestrade had come along. Given him cases, given him the chance nobody had given him before. He'd saved Sherlock by giving him an incentive to stay clean and agreed to help him through the horrible withdrawals when he relapsed. Everything would seem fine for a while.

Sherlock would be doing well and Lestrade wouldn't suspect anything, already knowing what Sherlock was like when he was using. New cases would excite the mad man, and years-old cold cases would be enough to placate him during London's criminal dry spells.

But then Sherlock would disappear without a word from his current address. Gone without a trace, just like right now. The first time, Lestrade had found him while doing a routine drug raid with Scotland Yard, barely recognizable amongst the other stick-thin, bedraggled bodies.

That particular vanishing act landed him in rehab once again, where his freedoms were taken away and he was forced to unlock his mind to the therapist's cold probing.

The next time was worse though.

Sherlock vanished just the same, without a word or a clue as to where he might be.

They searched in vain, but each den bust came up futile, even the locations he'd always seemed to frequent.

Months went by, and for a while they never thought they would find him alive again. Lestrade always expected Sherlock to show up at his next crime scene, but instead under the sheet. Frozen. Starved. Yet another OD victim. Stabbing victim. Shooting victim. Drug deal gone wrong. A water-bloated corpse that had fallen into the Thames.

But nothing happened.

Until they got a phone call from a hospital.

Sherlock had been brought in by two young cops, who'd found him OD'd in an alley near a dingy shipyard.

He'd died, actually legally died. His heart had stopped, his body too weak and malnourished to fight anymore. But they'd brought him back and managed to ID him from his previous hospital stays.

And so began a hell that Lestrade could never have expected. It was far worse than his own experiences with a detoxing Sherlock, so much worse than the drugged up shell strapped to a bed. It had been terrifying, not knowing if Sherlock would even make it through. He was underweight, almost shockingly so, bones protruding grotesquely. He was injured and ill, lungs swimming in fluid for a bad case of pneumonia, only aggravated by the cold, rainy London weather. It was worse than the last time, it seemed like he was really broken down psychically and that the invincible detective would never recover.

But he recovered, agains all odds. Made it out of the hospital, made it to rehab, and somehow even making it out of there. And he found me. And I saved him even though I only now fully understand the extent. I was kept in the dark about his habits for so long. The first drug's bust and the several subsequent ones were enough to convince me there was something going on, but Lestrade and Mycroft both remained tight-lipped. They assured me that Sherlock would tell me when he felt like it.

And he did, quiet forwardly, like it was no big deal.

No big deal that he'd basically killed himself. No big deal that he'd thrown away his life and his mind for nothing.

I'm sure he would think it was no big deal that he was missing now, that he'd left me alone again.

He was important to me, really truly important and he never seemed to believe me. He'd saved me too, though I never really admitted it to him.

I wish I had. I wish he knew how much he meant to me. I still need him, I needed him to know that I still cared.

Maybe I would get a chance still. Maybe it would be like the first time around.

Maybe we would find him after a few weeks of searching, healthy enough if a bit rough around the edges. Maybe he would still be okay. Maybe a trip to rehab and the assurance that he still mattered would be enough to pull him back into the land of the living.

But then again, maybe not.

Maybe I'm too late. Maybe it will be like the second time. Maybe he would OD and maybe it would be too much this time. Maybe he won't get lucky. Maybe I won't get lucky.

I might not get a chance to apologize for leaving him alone and moving on. He might be gone already. I am terrified.

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**Okay, so this new document manager is a bitch to deal with, especially for a story with such short lines :P **

**Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this and drop me a review if you did!**

** I hope to be back around soon with more! Perhaps a chapter from Sherlock POV?!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, so I'm still really pissed off over the screwed up copy-paste thing, so I freaking downloaded LibreOffice (which looks like shit) off the internet for free because apparently I can just straight up link the file into the docmanager, because of course I have a freaking Mac and doesn't support Pages. Seriosuly, if you're having trouble with uploading because of the copy-paste changes, just download LibreOffice, it's free and actually works...**

**Anyway, rant aside, here is Sherlock's long-awaited POV. This is also my first attempt at working the newly established canon into a story, specifically Sherlock's parents. Perhaps they'll make an appearance.**

**WARNING: references to drug use, language, not nice things, etc. etc. (You know the drill by now, it's rated T for a reason)**

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I will never let them find me.

Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, especially not John.

I don't want to be found. I don't want them to see me like this. But I want it to be over, finally over. I want to be free again, whatever free might mean.

I'd exhausted myself pretending that I could be a normal, semi-functioning member of society. I lived in a world of make believe, thinking that people cared for me when they just used me. They didn't care. If they cared, they would allow me to do what I pleased, they wouldn't try to control me. I would be able to use and still maintain some semblance of a life. If they cared, I wouldn't have to worry about being discovered and forced into some god-awful private facility. If they cared, they would leave me in peace and I wouldn't have to disappear to live out the short remainder of my life how I see fit.

My mind is better this way, though many would disagree, Mycroft included. Everything is clearer when I'm like this.

Of course, there are some unsavory side effects. Sleeping rough isn't the most comfortable, especially during the winter. Crack houses aren't much better, and they carry the risk of me being found by Lestrade or Scotland Yard. I'd learned my lesson the first time around. And the "services" I so often supply in exchange for the drugs are unsavory and illegal, but they work. The vast majority the time I'm too high to care that I was freezing cold and painfully coughing and doing disgusting, deplorable things to people's nether regions for a measly hit. But I can manage.

It didn't matter though. I am finally free from the pressure of everyone else weighing down on me, the pressure to stay sober despite the whispering in my ears. Everyone wants me to stay clean, everybody tries to force me. Lestrade withholds cases. Molly withholds the normally free-flowing supply of body parts and frankly just becomes angry at herself for continuing to love a sociopath. John is just ashamed of me, as is my entire family, Mycroft and my parents included. Dear god, my family, what would they think if they saw me now? What would anyone think?

I am undeniably the family fuck up, even when I was a child unable to keep my mouth shut. I am the loose end that just needed to be chopped off. They will be better of without me, better off without my unending shame.

Everyone always expects to have some sob story, some woeful tale of abusive, cruel parents that hate me. But I don't. My parents are good people, better than myself. I suppose that makes it all the worse when I screw up.

I do care about them. Really, I do. Many would be shocked to find that out. Honestly, I hate making the feel bad, I hate upsetting mummy but I can't help it. I can never avoid the trouble.

And despite how I'd once argued against the point, I'm always the one that upsets her and I hate myself for it. Mycroft is the perfect son, with the posh government job and the legacy degree from Oxford or Cambridge (I couldn't quite remember which though, not in my current state). Sometimes I don't even understand why I'm like this, why I do what I do. Maybe it's the constant boredom that stems from my superior intelligence, maybe it's my fucked up brain. But Mycroft never had these problems, he had always been better than me when we were young. Mycroft is perfect, he will always be perfect. Smarter, better with people, decidedly not a pathetic drug addict currently taking up residence under a bridge.

Perhaps it's just Mycroft's fault in general, maybe it's the inferiority complex he instilled upon me from an early age. He constantly put me down, called me stupid and made fun of me. I actually believed I was an idiot until I met other children. I still am an idiot, compared to him. Just look at my life choices if you'd ignore the intelligence.

He drove me to this. It was his fault to begin with. He left me alone with parents that cared but didn't quite understand. He made me the way I am. He made it so that I felt he need to constantly show off my obviously superior intelligence which in turn made people despise me. He made sure I never had friends, he made sure people hated me, he turned me cold. He pushed me to my breaking point, forced me to use drugs to alleviate the pain of life itself.

Then he had the audacity to make me stop, to kidnap me off the streets where I was perfectly happy on my own. He forced me to go through the withdrawals, to scream and sob until me throat was raw and my muscles burned. Humiliating, all the worse when people saw me that way. When Lestrade was brought in, it was worse.

I will never go through that again. Never.

The cycle will be broken this time, I will not be captured by Mycroft's men and shoved in the back of a black car. Lestrade will not find me passed out in a drug den. I will not go throughly the horrifying and humiliating detox. I will not be forced into rehab. They will never see me like this again. Should I overdose, by accident or purposely, I will not be found. I will die, I will not be resurrected with a jolt to the heart. I will not, and cannot, be saved.

I am already too far gone, unable to be saved. They will not find me, I won't let them. I will never see John again, and that doesn't really matter. The thought would have torn me up before, but I no longer care. He will be fine, he isn't alone anymore. He has Mary, he has a son/daughter on the way. He'll be fine without me, he doesn't need me.

Nobody needs me. Lestrade has is job steady once more, given two whole years to learn how to work cases without me again. Molly has Tom, they'll be happy together. Maybe they'll even have children some day. Mycroft has never cared, not since I was a baby. And my parents, well, they'll learn to deal with it. They will mourn me, surely. Mummy will cry but she'll get over losing her little boy eventually just as I once got over losing my only childhood friend. They had to expect this would happen some day. I'd done this very same thing twice before.

They will mourn because it is expected. But they will move on.

They will never find me because I won't allow it. I will remain free, I will do what I please. Perhaps I'll get a hold of some money, find a new city just to put more distance between myself and those searching for me. Maybe I'll even end up in some new country. Perhaps I'll try Florida again.

They won't find me alive. If anything, they will only find my body. But by then I will be somewhere else entirely.

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**Well then...hope y'all enjoyed that. Let me know what you think!**

**Also, 99 FOLLOWERS! You people are crazy...but how 'bout we make it 100 with this chapter :)**


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